Compromise That Moves Us Along
by mickeylover303
Summary: Greg knows he's not ready to fall. Slash.


Greg thinks kissing Nick is eerily close to being spun around. Neither going forward nor backward, but losing his sense of direction all the same. It's a little too fast, a little too disconcerting because someone else is doing the moving for him, and when Nick finally pulls away, Greg is left with a sense of vertigo that makes him feel weak in the knees.

Except Greg's never really kissed Nick, and this – whatever it is he feels towards Nick...

There's no doubt in his mind it's unrequited, and the best he can hope for is that Nick hasn't noticed, that he won't notice even after it eventually goes away; since one day it will, and it's the only thing Greg can look forward to. Until then, Greg pretends nothing's there, pushes it aside as a case of hero-worship gone wrong and something that could ruin his friendship with Nick.

But being around Nick doesn't make it easier to ignore the occasional hand on his shoulder, the playful nudge to his side or the smile on Nick's face that makes Greg want to turn away.

It makes it that much harder to stand, and Greg doesn't want to think he's still spinning in circles, going nowhere, because he doesn't want to wait for the inevitable fall.

He frowns at the beer sitting innocuously on the counter, peering at the evidence of condensation trailing down the label, and tries to convince himself he's currently not having a standoff with an inanimate object. He doesn't like beer, doesn't really care for alcohol. However, it doesn't take away from fact that the beer still there, doesn't take away from the fact that it's the same beer he bought yesterday, which, today, is not so subtlety reminding Greg that Nick is waiting for him in the living room.

He's stalling. Greg knows he is. He can readily admit to himself he's dreading leaving his temporary sanctuary, and maybe even finds solace in the having a silent, one-sided conversation with a bottle of beer.

But right now it's all he has. He feels bare at home, even though he's not supposed to. He feels vulnerable when he doesn't have his lab to hide behind and Nick's only a few steps away.

Sighing, he moves to take another bottle out of the refrigerator and holds it firmly in his hand. It's the brand Nick likes, with the taste Greg can't stand, but he gets it for himself, anyway.

He twists the metal cap, nearly cutting his thumb in the process. It comes off with a pop, the sound vibrant and succinct but drowned out by the fizzing that lingers after Greg throws the cap in the trash. The noise is ridiculously loud in his mind, and Greg wonders if Nick can hear him, wonders if Nick is too caught up in front of the TV to notice he's not back yet. It wouldn't surprise him.

Not that Nick spending time in Greg's apartment is anything new. Or at least it isn't anything relatively new. Greg would hesitate to call it routine, but it's normal, and maybe even something he could call somewhat consistent considering their shifts at work would usually overlap.

They hang out: rent movies, play games, watch TV, just the two of them, him and Nick for the last year or so. It's what they do, something that's become so commonplace that Greg almost can't remember what it was like before when he first moved to Vegas. And some part of him, the part he's hoping will fade away soon, can't help but feel those nights spent alone in his apartment were saved up just so he could have these moments with Nick.

The beer in his hand is still cold, and he moves his thumb across the wet label. The condensation is like sweat, beginning to make the bottle slip from his fingers, and at this point, Greg tells himself to drink it before he drops it on the floor.

Hesitantly, he raises the bottle to take a sip, but the smell is too strong, the bubbles from the deteriorating foam are tickling his nose, and suddenly he feels claustrophobic -- like he's back on the couch, side by side with Nick, knees touching and Nick too close with his breath hot on Greg's cheek.

There's the smell of the beer Greg doesn't like. Seemingly everywhere, it's the only thing he can concentrate on. Heavy and pungent, overpowering the smell of the sausage pizza Nick brought over, but Greg finds himself not really minding that much because it's Nick, and the awareness doesn't scare him as much as he thinks it should. It spreads a warmth reaching to his neck, travelling down his back, his body responding with a shudder that inspires his retreat into the kitchen, and the memory makes Greg realise his hands haven't really stopped shaking.

He jumps when he hears Nick call his name, making a joke about Greg blowing up the kitchen even though they both know he won't.

Greg brushes it off, makes a smart remark that leaves Nick laughing, and downs half the bottle of beer in his hand with one gulp. After a pause, he leans against the counter, swallows the saliva seemingly lodged in the back of his throat, and shudders at the beer's aftertaste. He raises the rim to his lips again and closes his eyes, forcing the cool, bitter liquid down his throat and drowning himself in the smell.

The bottle is nearly empty when Greg throws it in the trash, switching it with the unopened one for Nick.

He holds it tightly in one hand, noting the faint warmth, and uses his other hand to push off the surface of the counter. He wobbles a little, legs somewhat unsteady for a moment. He stills, breathes slowly, and takes one step forward, one step toward...

And maybe...

But he shakes his head and regains his balance, making his way toward the living room. An excuse for staying in the kitchen so long is already forming in the back of his mind while he tells himself it's the alcohol that's making him feel dizzy.

* * *

_Disclaimer...what disclaimer?_

_My CSI is stuff is getting dusty(er). I'm always horrid when it comes to explaining how this timeline of mine works, so I gave up quite some time ago. Though, this takes place early in the series...like between season one and two early. I really like this pre-slash thing._


End file.
